


Lean on Me in Sorrow and in Joy

by How_many_OTPs_can_I_have



Series: Static on the Line [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Pepper Potts, Body Dysphoria, Bucky Barnes-centric, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic Steve Rogers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Kitty!Bucky, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Burn, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Touch-Starved, because Canon is Cruel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/How_many_OTPs_can_I_have/pseuds/How_many_OTPs_can_I_have
Summary: Now that Bucky is living with Steve (and sometimes Sam and/or Clint), he has to navigate his identity as a feline human on top of his ex-brainwashed assassin recovery. It doesn't take long for him to realize that Steve needs to recover from his own traumas as well.Or, these obnoxiously self-sacrificing supersoldiers will always help each other before they help themselves





	1. Hydra's Monster?

With masochistic fatalism, Bucky Barnes meets his reflection’s gaze. Even though darkness shrouds the bathroom, the dim light from the hallway is enough for him to clearly see the pupils of his eyes rapidly narrow into slits. Panic claws its way up his throat, emerging in harsh exhales that fall short of the mirror’s surface. His human fist darts out to slam into the mirror. Now at least, the reflection is more fitting, since nothing fits together in the shards of his mind. All that’s left are a few shattered fragments of glass that desperately cling to their frame.

Bucky stares at a small stain on the wall, absorbing the few moments of stillness before Steve would inevitably crash into his presence again. One second…two…and there he is.

“Stop! Stay back, Steve.” Bucky’s chest is heaving, hair falling in lank strips in front of his downcast face. The strands drip water that seems as thick as the blood dripping from the knuckles of his flesh hand. He never needs to look to know that it really is Steve. Even if his sense of smell and hearing hadn’t been enhanced, he could almost feel the concern that all but oozes from his friend’s pores like sweat.

“Bucky,” he keeps his tone low as he flips the light switch back on (at least it was one of those eco-friendly ones that gradually brighten — instant brightness would be too much right now).

Bucky waits as Steve takes in the external damage. The blond makes no comment; he just gently implores Bucky to let him wrap up the brunet’s hand.

The ex-assassin’s ears rotate back and down, almost pressing against the sides of his head. His heavy tail twitches with barely checked violence as he growls, low and feral. Even so, Steve takes a tentative step forward, barely getting a foot closer before he’s halted by a ferocious glare and a stream of agitated Russian.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Steve’s taking pains to smooth and soften his already reassuring voice, “We’re in Tony Stark’s ridiculous tower, and the year’s 2015. Your name is James Buch—”

 ** _“Нет/_** ** _Nyet!”_**  Bucky throws out the interjection like a punch. He drags in a harsh breath before switching back to English, “I ain’t even human anymore, so how can I be him?”

“Buck—”

“Look at me, Steve! Really  **look.** I have a god-damned metal arm.” Now that he’s begun, more words roll inexorably down his tongue like an avalanche of boulders. “I’ve got plates and cogs and shit where flesh and blood and bone should be. HYDRA chopped off what was left of my arm, and soldered their fucking cyborg arm in its place. But that wasn’t enough. The fucking sick fuckers had to add an actual fucking  **tail**. After all, their ultimate angel of death can’t delude itself into believing that it’s anything other than Frankenstein’s monster.” He chokes out a bitter chuckle.

Steve lets a distressed sound escape him. “You’re not an it or a monster, Buck. You’re—”  
  
Bucky cut him off with a hiss. “You’ve read my files, right?”

"Yeah."

“Then you know that’s not true. God, Steve, I’ve killed  **children** , silently and efficiently: the perfect predator. I could  **smell** each target’s fear, right before I heard their hearts’ last frantic beats. I’m the monster in the woods, the murderous ghost in the attic…”

The eyes that meet Steve’s after that are so devoid of hope that Steve’s own hope falters for a moment.

“Dammit, Steve, why don’t you hate me?” His voice breaks on the last few words, breaking his eerily flat calm as well.

Steve knows that he has to tread carefully here, but he can’t leave Bucky when he’s in the thrall of such agonizing misery. His instinct to soothe his friend is at least checked enough to clearly telegraph his approach, however. He can’t avoid all the glass if he wants to reach Bucky, so he steps as lightly as he can without calling undue attention to the wreckage. When he’s close enough to hug him, Steve just reaches out and gently grips the side of Bucky’s face, tipping it up to meet Steve’s eyes (and the raw earnestness shining out of them).

“I could never hate you. You are my best friend, and I love you, jerk. That ain’t gonna change, especially over things you had no control of. The only thing those files told me was what they did to you. None of that shit was you.”

Here, Steve pauses, sliding his hand to cradle the back of Bucky’s head before continuing in a soft, reverent tone, “Now I know you didn’t always pay attention in church, but sometimes, the priest would preach on the best part of the Bible:  **Grace**. Love’s not an exchange; it just  **is.** You freely give it without puttin’ any strings on it.”

“Give it to someone else, Stevie.” It’s a nearly silent rasp, but the other super-soldier hears it. His grip reflexively tightens at the heartbreak in his friend’s voice, but he quickly relaxes and leans forward to rest his forehead against Bucky’s.

“No can do, pal,” his breath tickles the ex-assassin’s cheek. “With ya ‘til the end of the line. No refunds, exchanges, or take-backsies.”

That got a small huff of a laugh. Steve gently slings his right arm across his friend’s shoulders and leads them to his own bedroom. Sitting them both on the bed, Steve runs his fingers over the other man’s hair, lightly scratching behind an ear. Bucky leans into the touch, letting out a low, purr-like hum.

Steve smiles and murmurs, “I’ll be right back, Buck. Gettin’ some bandages and stuff.”

Bucky simply nods before curling in on himself (instinctively making himself smaller and more compact in order to minimize notice and the inevitable punishment that would follow. Wait… No, this was Steve – he’d never do that). Even so, he was too drained to straighten up and sit back to wait for the blond more comfortably.

Soon enough, Steve returns with their first aid kit and kneels in front of Bucky. He takes his time, painstakingly removing the slivers of glass from Bucky’s knuckles before cleaning, disinfecting, and wrapping them up with heart-aching tenderness. After that, they both breathe the moment in. Steve simply cradles his friend’s hand for a moment before bending down and brushing his lips over the bruised knuckles. Bucky could swear that he even hears the punk whisper, “There. All better.”

“Steve, did you seriously just—?”

“Yup,” Captain America himself interrupts with a smug little grin. Bucky can’t help snorting, which of course, Steve draws immediate attention to.

Bucky scoffs back, “Assassins don’t snort, Cap. No one taught you that in basic?”

“Well, you must not be one anymore, then.”

Bucky fondly rolls his eyes and mutters, “Get up here, ya dork.”

He pulls his oversized friend up with his metal arm and Steve immediately envelops Bucky’s waist with his arms, nuzzling his face into Bucky’s chest. Bucky likes hugging like this; he feels taller than Steve again (and less vulnerable too). He lets himself fully relax, tilting his head to rest his cheek on his best friend’s head. These points of caring contact cocoon them, working like fuzzy earmuffs to cancel out the staticky noise which frequently pervades their thoughts. Their inner demons are powerless against such steady, soothing contentment.

“I’m startin’ to fall asleep here, Stevie.”

“Mmm…me too.”

“Ya know,” Bucky drawls, “there might be some space behind us that would be just perfect for spreading out on. Your gigantic super-limbs are crushing me.”

Steve gasps in mock-outrage and surprise, playing along: “Really, Buck? That would sure be swell. But gee willikers! I am just soooo nice and comfy right here.”

Bucky smirks. Without warning, he tugs his friend with him as he scoots back to flop on the bed. Steve Rogers honest-to-God squeals in shock.

“You are such a jerk!” Steve splutters, but even so, he can’t stop grinning.

Bucky’s eyes sparkle as he replies, “Shut up, punk.” Then he shoves Steve over so he can curl up to Steve’s back. Bucky’s exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as he slung an arm over the former asthmatic’s waist, Steve following shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added the Cyrillic for Bucky's Russian "no," because my inner Linguist needed to be appeased, lol. So If the Нет/Nyet was confusing, he just said "Nyet" the one time; I just wanted both the actual Cyrillic and Roman alphabet transcription to be there.


	2. Steve's Nightmare

_The morning dew glistens on the foliage and monuments on Steve’s morning route. Sam’s not with him, so he’s free to run as fast as he can, barely breaking a sweat at a glorious full sprint. Just as he settles into his stride, he feels the rumbling quake of a distant explosion moments before he hears it. Steve immediately shifts his trajectory against the grain of the crowd, composed of nondescript civilians fleeing the latest calamity._

 

_He’s still a fair distance away, yet he finds himself running over shrapnel. The shrapnel is odd: clear glass shards, cold and cutting underneath his bare feet. He tilts his face toward the ground as he accelerates, and that’s when he notices that the glass shrapnel isn’t as clear as he first supposed._

 

_Now, they’re reflecting snatches of his memories: Bucky’s arm thrown casually across Steve’s shoulders, face lit up with a cocky grin; Peggy, stunning Peggy with her bold lipstick and eyes only for him, both in the jeep at basic and when she owned everyone’s attention at the bar in that scarlet dress; Bucky yelling at Steve yet again for taking such shitty care of himself._

 

 _He can hear the haunting echoes of his best friend’s reprimands,_ “D’you have a death wish, Steve? Huh? ‘Cause it sure as hell seems like it when you keep charging from one punching bag session to the next! Oh, I’m sorry, I meant  _fight,_ although it ain’t much of one when you only land one good hit before you keep gettin’ knocked down. Damn it, why can’t you at least stay down, or I dunno, maybe not even pull this shit in the first place when you’re not even over that lingering cold yet either?!”

 

_Steve runs on, wondering how the shards on the ground can rip into his eyes as well as his feet. Stab, stab, lingering burn, stab; his feet leave behind a thick trail of blood that’s diluted by smaller drops of tears._

 

 _Suddenly, Steve runs straight into the bombed-out bar in London. He stops so abruptly that he almost falls. He turns, trepidation shuddering down his spine, and there she is, levelling him with her steady gaze. Her bold red lips flash fiercely as she reprimands him,_ “Stop suffocating in here. He kept you alive for a reason, so honor his sacrifice by marching back out there and escorting HYDRA to the gates of Hell, Rogers.”

 

_Then the bar explodes, too, knocking Steve down but never out. He wearily staggers to his feet. He catches sight of Bucky in the rubble. Here in Steve’s subconscious, his friend is even more brutally beaten up than he was after the helicarriers. His tactical gear is in shreds, vicious gouges and gashes breaking through fabric and skin to release gushing ribbons of blood, which darken skin that never used to be so pale, not even in winter. But his eyes were even worse. Pure panic and confusion are replaced by empty ghost eyes. Steve remembers the early stages of that look, after Zola’s lab, but now, there’s even more deadened horror buried in the depths of those eyes._

 

_Steve gasps, “Buck—” but the longest serving POW jerks his head in a quick, barely discernable twitch before darting away. Steve immediately leaps off in pursuit. He chases him into thick woods reminiscent of central Europe._

 

 _The shrapnel is gone from beneath their feet, but now half-formed apparitions rise from the mist to glint off of each glimpse of the metal arm. Each apparition reflects_   _one horrifying torture by HYDRA after another: Bucky strapped into an unyielding chair before they fry his brain, Bucky lying directly on a frigid metal slab as masked technicians operate on his arm without any anaesthetics, Bucky huddled, naked in a cell, prodded with an electric cattle prod whenever he began to fall asleep... Steve becomes intimately acquainted with every single tone of his best friend’s screams._

 

_Just when Steve’s finally drawing level with Bucky, the former assassin vanishes. Steve’s arm was stretched out – nearly brushing Bucky’s shoulder, when Bucky’s head rotated around with the eerie fluidity and dispassionate curiosity of an owl. But as soon as his icy eyes had met Steve’s, he had disappeared._

 

_Pure, undiluted panic speeds through Steve’s veins. The trees around him loom closer and closer, blotting out the already dim sunlight. The darkness turns icy: heavy, cold, and wet. All Steve can think is that he has to find Bucky and protect him._

 

_But the ice water isn’t letting him go. He swims up, up, and still further up. His lungs burn, thick ropes of rough fire licking up his throat, desperately seeking some kind of mooring above sea level. No matter how fast or strongly he struggles, Steve seems no closer to the surface than he had been._

 

_He’s not gonna make it. His improved lungs are as useless as the ones he’d been born with; they can’t even hold on until he can reach the surface to save the man who’d kept him alive for so long._

 

_He is just too damn weak, still not good enough to save his best friend. He can’t do anything else, so he screams out his agony and self-loathing through the freezing water._

* * *

 

Suddenly, his hands are scrambling freely through air, unimpeded by heavy drapes of water. He realizes that the broken keening in his ears is coming from his own mouth, sounding much like the second syllable of Bucky’s name. But the next thing he notices is that something’s clamping down over his biceps. Acting on pure instinct and adrenaline, Steve rips whatever’s restraining him off, immediately flowing into a rolling jump off of the bed.

Only then does he register a quiet hiss of pain and his surroundings in the waking world. He opens his eyes to see Bucky crouched over the middle of the bed, the ridiculously large bed Tony had given Steve. His friend’s eyes are slightly widened and staring at him. He bites his lip as fresh blood oozes from he reopened wounds on his flesh hand.

“Shit. Fuck. Oh my God, _Bucky,_ ” Steve’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry. So sorr—”

He moves toward his bleeding friend only to collapse onto his knees in front of the bed, deep, wracking sobs shuddering through his whole body.

Seeing Steve break so badly launches Bucky from shock into action. He crawls over to the edge of the bed and enfolds the blond into his arms, gently pressing his friend’s face into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Shh...Stevie, I’m here. I’m okay. It’s alright.”

“N-no, you’re not,” Steve stutters. “I hurt you. You’re b-bleeding. I couldn’t get to you fast enough; I was too goddamned slow – too damn slow  _again_. You disappeared and I couldn’t  _find_ you.”

Steve’s nearly choking on the words tumbling over each other, sparking some of Bucky’s earliest instincts to life. He couldn’t let the poor super-soldier work himself into a fit of hyperventilating, especially not since he seemed to have absorbed all of the idiot’s sense of self-preservation. Following the force of long dormant habit, the brunet breathes deep and evenly before laying Steve’s hand over Bucky’s heart.

“Just match my breaths, okay, punk?”

And Steve, heeding the same instincts, shoves everything except listening to Bucky’s voice out of his immediate consciousness. As Steve pours all of his energy into matching Bucky’s breaths, Bucky has the time to parse out the blond’s panicked rambles. He’s known that Steve had nightmares, but he had never let himself imagine their contents. The two of them had mutually and tacitly agreed to ignore that can of giant alien worms, lest they spew festering slime everywhere. But now that Bucky could see past the lid over Steve’s night terrors, he’s slightly surprised to find the heart of Steve’s trauma is deeper than he expected.

He should have known that the little guy from Brooklyn would internalize his perceived failures like this. He _would_ have known if he’d paid closer attention. Now that he’s actually seeing Steve’s raw pain and poorly buried guilt, it’s glaringly obvious that Steve’s about as screwed up as Bucky. Especially when Steve’s expected to be mostly functional and well-adjusted to the vast majority of modern life. With Bucky… well, everyone’s happy if he hasn’t hurt or killed anyone. So anything beyond that is as unexpected as it is celebrated.

Both of them are experts at surviving: Bucky by making do with whatever is and isn’t given to him, and Steve through sheer, pig-headed willpower. But even with Erskine’s Serum sustaining him, he’s only human. Even Steve’s faith and determination have limits; he can’t keep calm and carry on forever, especially when so much has worn him down. He deserves some extra care and support, and by God, Bucky will give him some.

To start, he’ll soothe him through this terror, easing the blond under the covers and protectively curling around him. Steve clutches at the arm encircling him, needy in a way he never let himself be back in Brooklyn. 

“I’ve got you, Stevie.” Bucky murmurs, “Ain’t goin’ anywhere. I got you. We're gonna be okay.”


End file.
